CHIP – CHIRP / WAXY / KIT / MEND – DEMEAN / WAG – TWANG / SAC – CHAPS – CHAMPS / FUN – FUNGUS / VOICE / TURN – RUINT / DOOR – ROOTED / OAT / BRAG – BARGE / RUE – QUEER – REQUEST / EEL – BELIE / JAIL / VOLE – LOVER / LOAD / FIN- NIFTY / GAZE
Every revolver is tied to a lover
of something. A chirp chips in
to the morning tableau.
A sac would be nifty about right now
with so much around us
collecting. To be collected
to be calm and—as the description goes.
I queer the request and ask
for a recitation of a poem that ends
on wag. Satisfy me. Salsify, waxy beans,
fungus, oats, but no eel please. No pleasing
eel. My appetite is ruint by the twang
that relocates me, carrying my taste space
home. For once, we rooted for the champs.
We jailed our gaze and allowed visitation
from the object deemed most
textured thus most fun
for extended scoping—the eye coping
a feel. The eye coping with all
forbidden it, finding comfort in the vole
in its burrowed state. A door belies
an entry. Who is it you would have had
barge in? Having been had, having
to demean the brag,
someone hangs meat over the swelling.
A raw curtain drawn. Rue the chaps
who failed to mend. A load of face
is carted, and a query turns it.
A smirk emerges like a shark fin. Circles
the general mood. Pull a voice from the kit
and swab my ear. I need to hear
that now, whatever it is.
As is often the case, a word's gone missing.
A process note: words and line counts for these poems were generated through the card game Royalty, in which players build and capture words until all the cards are exhausted. I recorded the results of games and used each of the words generated in each game in a poem; the poem consists of the same number of lines as the number of words generated in each game.